


Someday I'll walk out of here again

by Lissomedi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Caring Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt Crowley, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Some emotional trauma going on in here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-28
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-23 10:10:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20006590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lissomedi/pseuds/Lissomedi
Summary: “You forget, we’re different.”“I’ve never forgotten—”“You forget people treat us differently.”And for the first time, Aziraphale realized that perhaps Crowley’s sullen mood wasn’t just run-of-the-mill demon attitude.(The angel and demon get stuck in a cellar. Aziraphale has pleasant memories of the place, while Crowley does...not. Post Not-Pocalypse.)





	Someday I'll walk out of here again

* * *

  
" _And it seems like you've been meaning to do me harm,_  
_But I'll teach my eyes to see beyond these walls in front of me,_  
_And someday I'll walk out of here again."_

— _Trapped,_ Bruce Springsteen

* * *

“Ah, here we are!” Aziraphale exclaimed delightedly, pushing into the ancient stone room. 

The walls were coarse, large-cut brick, shifting from gray to grimy black in places, and there were shelves notched into the stone. The room was fairly large, and the stone floor was covered in remnants of old, broken wooden barrels. The high, arched ceiling had concerningly large cracks running through it, which gave the impression that it could cave at any moment. 

Aziraphale looked around the ruin in delight, as though it were a fine English estate.

Crowley, standing at the door (that was really a rough-hewn rectangular opening), was less impressed. In fact, he had dipped into his Hellish nature enough to do something alarmingly close to _lurking_. His tall, thin form was hunched over, his head tilted down, and it was impossible to tell the direction of his gaze from behind his dark glasses. 

“Great,” The demon said, with a clear note of sarcasm. “We came; we saw. Can we go?”

Aziraphale frowned, his buoyant mood in serious danger of sinking under Crowley’s gloom. Crowley had been in a funk for days, ever since Aziraphale had suggested a weekend trip to visit these old ruins. His dark mood was like a constant rain cloud over Aziraphale’s head, which was rather _annoying_ , if Aziraphale was being honest.

But, filled with grace as he was, Aziraphale endeavored for concern. “Are you hurting, dear? Is the ground still consecrated?” 

Crowley didn’t speak for a moment. “No, it’s a proper ruin—all deactivated.” Then he lifted his head and sniffed at the air. “It still smells, though.” 

“Upon my word!” Aziraphale exclaimed, scandalized. “Are you implying that holiness _smells_?” 

Finally, _finally_ , Crowley quirked his lips. “A bit. But I rather like it on you.” Then he looked around, and a shadow passed over his face. “I just don’t like it _here_.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t understand it. He had such fine memories of the monastery, back when it had been fully intact and functioning. The food had been a bit lacking, certainly, and the brown robes weren’t the least bit flattering. But he remembered bowing his head amidst the monks, whispering benedictions and performing minor miracles. They had such clear, defined faith; he missed the comfort of that certainty. Things were so much messier now. 

But Aziraphale was built for compassion, and he wouldn’t force Crowley to be somewhere he didn’t want to be. Even if Crowley was being rather _frustrating_ about the whole thing—couldn’t he suffer through an hour’s worth of boredom for Aziraphale’s sake? Wasn’t that the sort of thing friends did for each other?

Crowley lounged against the doorway and tilted his head back, showing off the long column of his throat. He looked for all the world like a long-suffering saint praying for deliverance. 

“Fine,” Aziraphale conceded, peeved. “Just let me grab the mead. I asked them to put a couple of bottles aside for me, and I know they must have—they were ever so generous with their wares.” 

“Five minutes,” Crowley agreed reluctantly.

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and walked to the far side of the room. Crowley made a small noise that almost sounded like a protest, but when Aziraphale looked back, the demon was still leaning casually against the wall.

Aziraphale picked carefully over the rubble and lowered himself to peer into one of the stone shelves. He reached in, his fingers brushing through a fine layer of cobwebs, and pressed at one of the bricks.

Nothing happened. 

“Huh,” he said, and pressed the brick again—more firmly this time. Still nothing. He dug his fingers into the crack that ran along the bottom of the brick, and finally it gave way. This wasn’t the neat hideaway he remembered, but it _had_ been more than 600 years. He wiggled the stone free and placed it aside, but he couldn’t get his arm in at the right angle to reach the contents inside.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale called, huffing in frustration. “Can you please help, dear? Your arms are narrower than mine.”

No response. Aziraphale straightened and looked over at the demon, who was still hovering in the doorway.

“Are you _quite_ sure the ground isn’t bothering you?” Aziraphale asked.

“It’s not.”

“Then come help me so we can get out of here.” 

Crowley heaved a dramatic sigh, as if Aziraphale were asking for something both taxing and highly unreasonable. But he ambled over, and Aziraphale had to avoid watching that familiar sway in his hips. 

“You want me to reach in _there_?” Crowley asked, eyebrows appearing over the rim of his glasses.

“I do.”

Another full body sigh, but Crowley did as instructed—which was the usual way of things. His thin arms didn’t meet the same resistance as Aziraphale’s, and soon he was shoulder-deep in the hideaway. 

“Have you got them?” Aziraphale asked, clapping his hands in excitement. “There should be two or three bottles.”

“I’ve got one,” Crowley confirmed, and pulled it out. The glass was ancient and dusty, tinted brown with time. The label had peeled away entirely. “Aren’t you afraid it’s spoiled?”

“Well, I might have put a little _blessing_ on the stock,” Aziraphale said primly. Crowley stared at him for a moment, and though Aziraphale couldn’t _see_ the amused judgment, he could certainly feel it. 

“Come, come, get the rest,” Aziraphale said. Crowley did, and soon the bottles were tucked away in Aziraphale’s bag, just waiting for the pleasant moment when they could be consumed at last.

But as Crowley and Aziraphale turned toward the door, an ominous rumble trembled through the room, shaking dust loose from the rafters. The two ethereal beings looked at each other. 

“Perhaps you were right after all,” Aziraphale said nervously. He snapped his fingers, intending to miracle them away—

But they stayed exactly where they were. He snapped again, staring at his faulty fingers in shock. 

The room rumbled once more, sending a cascade of stones and splinters down onto them. 

“Angel, _let’s go,_ ” Crowley said urgently, grabbing Aziraphale’s hand and tugging him toward the door. Aziraphale moved slower than Crowley—which turned out to be a blessing, because a second before they reached the exit, a pile of broken stone collapsed right where the opening had been.

It was also the exact place Crowley had been standing a few minutes ago.

Now that they were free agents, Aziraphale didn’t expect Heaven or Hell to offer any more corporeal forms should they lose the ones they had now. And as far as they understood it, Adam’s Antichrist powers had waned so much as to be nonexistent.

Which meant Crowley had just come terribly close to something like dying. 

Panic darkened the corners of Aziraphale’s vision, and his hand tightened around the demon’s. 

“Try transporting us!” Fear made his voice high and sharp. 

Crowley mirrored Aziraphale’s snap, but again nothing happened. It was as if their powers had run out of batteries. 

Or as if they had been taken away. Had Heaven and Hell really let the two of them go? Or had they simply regrouped and formed a new game plan? Trapping them in a crumbling ruin, perhaps, without means to protect themselves.

Then Aziraphale noticed something around the now-blocked doorway. It was a kind of ancient writing etched into the stone. His Sumerian was terribly rusty, but he could make out a few words, enough to understand that it was a guard against demonic influence.

There was something that humans had a hard time grasping about angels and demons: the two were fundamentally the _same,_ just on opposite sides of God’s proverbial line in the sand. Well, that and their working conditions, which led to variances in appearance, sensitivities, and hygiene. But when you got right down to it, it was all about the _nurturing_ , not the _nature_. 

All this to say, when well-meaning monks drew ancient glyphs to protect themselves from demons, they inadvertently blocked angelic intervention, as well. 

“Fuck,” Crowley hissed, and Aziraphale knew Crowley had seen the wards and come to the same conclusion. 

To recap: their only exit was blocked, they were in an ancient cellar that could collapse on them at any moment, and neither of them had a bit of magic between them.

“Fuck,” Aziraphale agreed faintly, clutching at his chest. 

* * *

“I _told_ you this was a bad idea!” Crowley raged, picking up a large chunk of rock and tossing it at the blocked doorway. “But do you listen? No, never. It has to be Aziraphale’s way, all the time.”

“I beg your pardon,” Aziraphale responded, stung. “It is _not_ always my way. We do plenty of things you want to do. And anyway, you didn’t _know_ this would happen.”

“This place is bloody cursed,” Crowley hissed, tossing another rock. It wasn’t doing any good, but Aziraphale didn’t think Crowley was trying to accomplish anything, anyway. 

“Listen,” Aziraphale said, using that soothing voice he saved for panicking humans. From Crowley’s look, the demon knew it, and he didn’t like it. “The structure seems to have settled, and these ruins are fairly popular. Someone will surely come along sometime, and it’s not as though we’ll starve.”

Another rock flew toward the door—then another, and another. Aziraphale reached over and grasped Crowley’s wrist to stop him from bending down to collect more. Crowley stilled. 

“Please, dear, just try to relax.”

“You don’t _get_ it, it’s—” Crowley stopped, his mouth closing with a snap. 

“I can see you don’t like this place,” Aziraphale said patiently when Crowley didn’t continue. “I don’t know _why_ —the monks were always so kind—but I understand you don’t want to be here. I promise to try and get you out just as soon as possible.”

“Kind to _you_ ,” Crowley muttered.

“Pardon?”

Crowley shook his head and turned away, settling down on a still-intact barrel. He stared straight ahead, his eyes unfathomable behind his glasses. “You forget, we’re different.”

“I’ve never forgotten—”

“You forget people _treat us_ differently.”

And for the first time, Aziraphale realized that perhaps Crowley’s sullen mood wasn’t just run-of-the-mill demon attitude. 

“I see,” Aziraphale said, for lack of anything better. 

“You don’t.”

“Well, maybe I would if you _talked to me_.” Frustration made Aziraphale’s voice sharp. 

“I talk to you constantly!” 

“But not about—” Aziraphale stopped and made a broad gesture, which was meant to encompass _how you feel and what hurts you and what’s most important to you._

“Excuse me if I don’t want to relive every terrible thing that’s happened to me. It would make me awfully fun at parties, wouldn’t it?” 

“Why are you—” Aziraphale stopped and shook his head, because he already knew the answer to that question. Corner any snake, and it would surely rise up to strike. “Let’s try not to argue, dear.”

Crowley grunted but fell silent, leaning on his elbows and tilting his head back. Really, did he _always_ have to look so languid and approachable and _tempting?_

To avoid thinking about it, Aziraphale dug around in his bag and pulled out one of the bottles of mead. He gently blew on the glass to remove some of the dust. Then he set to work on opening it, grunting in frustration when the cork didn’t budge. Crowley probably knew a lot of cool human ways to do this—he was always good at keeping up on that sort of thing. But Crowley didn’t offer, and Aziraphale didn’t ask. Finally, Aziraphale got it free, and he took a deep, savoring sip.

The flavors exploded on his tongue, slightly bitter but mostly sweet, with notes of honey and pear and hot, heady spices.

“Mmmm,” he said happily. 

“It’s almost indecent, watching you do that.”

“Watching you do _anything_ is almost indecent,” Aziraphale countered, though he felt the blush rise on his cheeks. “You invented indecency.”

Given that it was Crowley who made Adam and Eve aware of their own nakedness, this was mostly true. 

Crowley wiggled his hips as if to demonstrate, and Aziraphale’s delicate blush turned into full, red-faced embarrassment. 

“You’re too easy, angel,” Crowley laughed, his voice finally finding some of its usual warmth. Crowley pulled up his glasses and tucked them into his hair, and Aziraphale knew that he had been forgiven. 

He held the bottle of mead out to Crowley in silent offering, but the demon shook his head. The shadow came back to his face. 

“It’s really quite good,” Aziraphale said uncertainly.

“I don’t like the smell.”

Aziraphale nodded, but he didn’t understand. The cellar was heady with the scent of the mead, and though it had the sour tinge of age to it, it still smelled generally nice—hot and spicy. But perhaps it did something different to Crowley’s heightened reptilian senses. 

They sat in silence after that, and boredom led Aziraphale to study the room. Too bad about all the broken barrels; this recipe really was the best Aziraphale had ever tasted. The ground was sticky and stained from where the precious dark liquid had spilled. As Aziraphale studied the stains, he noticed more Sumerian etched into the ground. Interest piqued, he moved closer, examining the ancient writing. 

He recognized a symbol that could loosely translate to _binding_. Slowly, he began to pick through the rubble, eventually revealing a small circle set into the ground. There were more runes carved strategically around it. He lifted up a large piece of wood that was blocking the center of the circle—and his breath caught in his throat. 

There, carved into the stone, was the body of a snake. It looped around itself to form a shape like a doubled infinity symbol.

 _Crowley’s_ symbol. 

The same one that was inked permanently onto Crowley’s temple. 

When he looked up, Crowley was watching him, something wild and afraid in his eyes. 

“I don’t understand,” Aziraphale said. But he was lying, because a kind of horrified understanding was already blossoming in his gut, even as he tried to rationalize it away. “Why did they—why would this be—”

Crowley rose to his feet in a rough, quick motion, pacing across the room. 

More pieces fell into place. The last time Aziraphale had been here, there hadn’t been any Sumerian on the walls; he was sure of that. He had left just before the turn of the 14th century, and he had never found the time to come back. 

And Crowley had always _hated_ the 14th century. Went thin-lipped and silent anytime Aziraphale brought it up.

Aziraphale wracked his brain, trying to remember if he had ever seenhis adversary during that century. But he had the answer—he knew he did. 

“You were here,” Aziraphale said, his voice hushed in the still room. “They bound you.”

Crowley went still. His back was toward Aziraphale, but his thin shoulders were shaking. 

“How long?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley didn’t move, much less answer. 

“Crowley, how long were you here? How long did they keep you in that circle? Goodness, the grounds were still consecrated then—”

“Starts to itch,” Crowley said finally, without turning around. “After the first decade or two. Then it just sort of…settles in. Becomes this constant burning.”

And Aziraphale could imagine it, could see Crowley pinned down and trapped in the binding circle, writhing alone in a dark room. 

“Decades?”

“Eight of them, give or take.”

“ _No_.”

Crowley whirled around. “For Satan’s sake, don’t _weep_ for me.”

But of course Aziraphale was, his cheeks streaked with tears. “ _Why_? Why would they do that?”

“Why do humans do any of the bad things they do?” Crowley’s lip curled. “Superstition. Fear. Cruelty. They thought a demon could ward off the plague.”

Aziraphale’s memory of that century finally sharpened. He had been in England, performing miracles and trying to hold society together as disease and famine had threatened to tear it apart. It had seemed like terribly important work at the time. He had even blamed Crowley for starting the mess with the plague in the first place; had been _relieved_ not to see him. 

“I didn’t know,” Aziraphale’s voice was choked. 

Something in Crowley’s expression softened. “Of course you didn’t. I wouldn’t have expected you to.”

But Aziraphale ran through all the times Crowley had rescued him; all the times he’d turned up to help Aziraphale avoid discorporation or worse.

Because Crowley had _checked up_ on him. He must have done. Otherwise, how would he have been able to show up in the right place at exactly the right time?

Eighty years, and Aziraphale had never checked in. Not once. 

“See? This is why I didn’t tell you,” Crowley’s voice was harsh. “You angels are so bloody obsessed with guilt. It’s not your fault, Aziraphale.”

“How did you—” Aziraphael stopped, swallowed, and tried again. “How did you get out?”

Crowley nodded toward the circle, and Aziraphale looked back at it unwillingly. For the first time, he noticed the long crack that ran through the stone floor—a crack that cut straight across the lines of the circle, diminishing its supernatural power. 

Because some habits died hard or never died at all, Aziraphale reached blindly for faith. “The Almighty, perhaps She—”

“Don’t insult me, please,” Crowley interrupted. “Your God gave up on me a very long time ago, angel. It was dumb luck—a shifting foundation. Nothing more.”

Aziraphale couldn’t take it anymore. He hurried to Crowley, reaching for the demon’s shoulders and pulling him into his chest. Crowley went rigid in his arms but didn’t pull away. Aziraphale cradled him, fingers clutching the fabric of Crowley’s black jacket, tears falling into Crowley’s hair. 

Gradually, Crowley relaxed, then clung to him. The demon’s whole body shook, as though something inside of him was finally breaking loose. 

“I’m so sorry, my love,” Aziraphale whispered into the demon’s ear, fingers moving to stroke Crowley’s soft, red hair. “I’m so terribly sorry this happened to you.”

Aziraphale continued whispering in Crowley’s ear, as Crowley gasped and shook in his arms. Eventually, both of them quieted. 

Crowley finally pulled back just enough to look into Aziraphale’s eyes. Blue met bright, luminous yellow. Then Crowley leaned in and kissed him.

Surprise kept Aziraphale still, despite having imagined this scenario a million times. Crowley’s mouth on his, his hands tangled in Aziraphale’s hair—it was all exactly like his fantasies, except it was also undoubtedly _wrong_.

He leaned back and said, “Darling, I don’t think—” 

Crowley pulled away immediately, as though he had expected a reproach. Aziraphale was sad to lose the solid weight of him against his chest.

“Sorry,” Crowley said, eyes closing. “Sorry, that was stupid of me—I wasn’t thinking. Won’t happen again.” 

“Please don’t promise _that_ ,” Aziraphale said sharply, and Crowley opened his eyes in surprise. 

“I was going to say, I don’t think we should be doing this _now_ ,” Aziraphale said firmly. “I’ve been waiting for a long time, you see, and I’d rather it didn’t finally happen while we're both crying our eyes out.” 

“Oh,” was all Crowley said. 

There was a moment of awkward silence.

“Unless I’ve misread things?” Aziraphale asked hesitantly. Crowley had kissed him, after all, but perhaps it had simply been about distraction, and not long-hidden desire. Crowley was a lot more accustomed to the, ah, _comforts of the flesh_ than Aziraphale was. Even now, Crowley could be trying to think of how to talk his way out of—

“No!” Crowley said loudly. “No, I—Aziraphale, I—”

Aziraphale waited patiently, but Crowley didn’t finish. Well aware of how emotional declarations tended to get caught in Crowley’s throat, Aziraphale simply patted the demon’s red, tear-stained cheek.

“I’m sorry,” Aziraphale said, his eyes welling again. “You’re stuck here again, and it’s my fault. I’m so sorry.”

Crowley hugged him then—fiercely. His thin arms were like a vice around Aziraphale’s waist, but the angel didn’t mind.

“It’s alright,” he said into Aziraphale’s ear. “This time you’re here.”

Aziraphale almost fell apart all over again at that. They were both quiet as he struggled to get himself under control. 

“I’ll get you out,” Aziraphale murmured back finally. “And then I’ll tear it down.”

Crowley huffed a surprised laugh and pulled back. “I do love watching you get righteous. My avenging angel.”

Aziraphale looked away, embarrassed—and his eyes landed on the Sumerian runes around the doorway. He looked from there to the circle. 

The circle with the big crack running through it. 

The crack that had rendered it completely ineffective.

“Crowley,” he said, eyes widening as the idea blossomed. “Crowley—start throwing stones at the door again.”

“Angel, that wasn’t really meant to do anything—”

Aziraphale moved away and picked up a large fragment of rock. He tested his arm a few times before setting the rock loose toward the archway. It struck the symbols, and the tiniest dent started to take shape.

Crowley’s eyes went round with realization. “Oh.”

As with anything, they made quick progress once they started working together. Crowley even got into it, placing bets and engaging it some trash talk as though it were a sports game. Aziraphale, who recognized a needed distraction when he saw one, didn’t comment, even when Crowley said some rather _mean_ things about Aziraphale’s throwing arm. 

And then, quite suddenly—it worked. They would argue for years over who threw the winning stone, but whoever it was, the archway cracked, and a feeling of release shuddered through the air. It dissipated with a crackle like electricity, and a shiver swept up through Aziraphale’s fingers. 

He snapped, and both he and Crowley found themselves in the grassy field beside the ruin, the sun beaming down on their faces, the open air fresh and bright in their lungs. 

Crowley let out a ragged breath that was halfway to a sob, and Aziraphale felt guilty all over again. The demon doubled over, bracing his hands on his bent knees, and Aziraphale placed a comforting hand on Crowley’s shoulder.

Then he turned his attention to the ancient monastery. 

After a quick sweep to make sure no one else was inside it, Aziraphale stepped forward and squared his shoulders, planting his feet apart. His wings unfurled into existence behind him, blinding white in the bright sunlight. With one hand raised and a few words whispered under his breath, Aziraphale sent the monastery crumbling into itself. 

The vibration of it shook the ground under their feet, but no dust from the ruin touched them. Aziraphale kept his eyes on the structure until it was done—until he could _feel_ that every stone had broken. 

He turned back to Crowley, and the demon flinched, as though the righteous fury were still real and visible on Aziraphale’s face. Aziraphale closed his eyes for a moment and _willed_ the fury away. His wings folded out of sight behind him, and when he opened his eyes, he felt more like himself. 

“Well,” he said, rubbing his hands together like he had just mended a particularly delicate book. “That’s that. It was a dangerous place, anyway—better that it's gone.”

“No argument here,” Crowley said faintly. But he was looking at Aziraphale in a funny way, as though the demon might suddenly drop to his knees in supplication. 

Aziraphale didn’t feel entirely comfortable with it. Angels were made to worship, not to _be_ worshipped. 

“Well,” he said, looping his arm through Crowley’s. “This has all made me rather hungry. Lunch?”

“Whatever you want, angel.”

“Good. We can talk about—well, about what happened.” 

Crowley looked like he might rather be buried at the bottom of that ruin. The panic was almost endearing.

“Angel?” Crowley said.

“Yes, darling?” 

“Thanks.”

Aziraphale stopped and grabbed Crowley by the lapels of his jacket, pulling the demon to face him. He placed a quick, delicate kiss on his lips. When he leaned away, Crowley looked shell-shocked. 

“Don’t mention it,” Aziraphale said, and tugged the stunned demon toward the car. 

**Author's Note:**

> Believe it or not, this is the result of a prompt of sorts from Neil Gaiman. Someone tweeted him that they loved the show itself, but could watch just Aziraphale and Crowley all day, and he responded, "You could lock them in a dark cellar for an hour and you'd still have a show, yes." It wasn't even supposed to be angsty, but I am what I am. Hope you enjoyed! Comments are, as always, incredibly appreciated and read over and over for encouragement.


End file.
